


Beard Wars

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beard Championship, Facial Hair Kink, M/M, Pining, Pretty much just crack, Sabotage, Thorin's beard, because damnit that deserves its own tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I kissed him! I touched his beard- oh my God.”<br/>Bilbo’s in a bit of a daze.<br/>“What was it like?” Bard asks, looking morbidly curious about the whole thing.<br/>“It was so soft, Bard. Like cotton!” Bilbo can’t even cope with this right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beard Wars

**Author's Note:**

> Idk why this hasn't been done before, but here you go. Also, I know that there are a lot of different Beard titles to win, like Freestyle, or Natural or whatever, but I sort of just amalgamated them all for the sake of this story.

Bilbo likes beards, okay? There’s nothing wrong with that.

They’re cool, and can be styled wickedly and honestly, Bilbo thinks there’s nothing better than the idea of a big, rugged man and his rugged beard grabbing him and-

 _Okay_. Better not go there. But you get his point. He likes beards. _A lot_.

He also likes beard burns: on his cheeks, and down his neck and along his chest and across his thighs, and… yeah we’ll just stop there.

And because everyone at the magazine knows that Bilbo just _loves_ beards, they’re letting him cover this story.

He’s grateful, he really is, but he’s a little worried that they might kick him out for gawking so much.

There are beards _everywhere_. It’s like heaven.

Beard Heaven, that’s what it is.

And they’re all neatly trimmed and cared for and styled and brushed and it’s like everything from Bilbo’s fantasies coming into fruition.

Bilbo wants to touch them _all_ : stroke them, and brush them, and run his fingers through them.

He wants to hold on tight and tug while someone props his legs up over their shoulders and-

“Wow, I know they told me and everything, but I never really thought… I mean, you _really_ like beards. You’ve been unable to speak for like, five minutes now.”

Bilbo jumps, having somehow completely forgotten he wasn’t alone with all the beards, and turns to Bard, sheepishly grinning. “Yeah,” he admits. “I mean, just look at them.” He gestures vaguely at some of the competitors.

Bard just shrugs, adjusting the camera strap over his arm. “They’re cool for photos, I guess. But it just seems like so much work to grow them so long. Like,” he runs a hand over his stubbled jaw, “I have enough trouble keeping all this trimmed so I don’t even up looking like a hobo- I can’t imagine how long it takes to take care of something like _that,_ ” he gestures towards one particular competitor with a beard almost down to his knees.

Bilbo isn’t blessed with a beard. Not that he thinks it’d suit him anyway, but he can’t really grow facial hair. It’s a family thing.

He supposes he likes is so much because it’s like a forbidden thing. Something he could never do. He won’t go all Freudian on it and delve too deeply, though, because that way lay dragons… probably. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He likes beards, and that’s that.

He knows the angle he’s going to take already- because anyone who’s anyone in the Beard Community knows about the ongoing feud between Thorin Oakenshield and Azog Orcinstile. Azog snatched the crown out from under Thorin last year, even though it was very clear his beard was subpar. And Bilbo’s not being biased in that. Everyone thinks it. He’s not at all swayed in his view because he’s completely in love with Thorin Oakenshield.

Azog should never have won that title last year.

So there’s plenty of juicy stuff to write about. Azog is back this year, with an even fouler beard, and Thorin is back as well to win the title once more.

And yes, Bilbo _is_ totally in love with him. He’s not even going to deny it.

Thorin has the best beard Bilbo’s ever seen. It’s dark and neatly trimmed and there had been (and still is, occasionally) a lot of speculation about whether or not it was even _real_. One competitor had claimed that he hadn’t grown it himself- that it was implanted. Another had said it was attached to his face like hair extensions. Of course none of them could prove it. But Bilbo is sure it’s real. It’s too awesome to _not_ be real.

And the rest of Thorin is pretty great, too. People practically throw themselves at his feet when he walks into a room. But Bilbo’s not like that. Nuh-uh. Doesn’t matter how good the beard, Bilbo Baggins does not go all gooey and coy over just anyone. A Baggins knew better than that.

Besides, someone like Thorin Oakenshield: Beard Extraordinaire wouldn’t give someone like Bilbo the time of day. Bilbo kind of looked like a primary school teacher or a friendly neighbour: not someone people wanted to grab by the shirtsleeves and drag to a room to ravish. He was a mouse, not a sensual creature. Pity, too. Bilbo’s always rather hoped for a little bit of being thrown over a shoulder and taken off to a room, caveman style. It never happens, though, so Bilbo’s not getting his hopes up.

He’ll just sit back and enjoy the beards and hope that Azog falls and accidentally gets his beard caught in one of those old pencil sharpeners or something.

**

“I can’t believe he’s shown ‘is face again,” huffs Dwalin, crossing his burly arms over his chest.

Thorin sighs. “We can’t stop him from showing up to the competitions, Dwalin,” he says now. “Believe me: if I could, I would have done it a long time ago.”

“Look at ‘im, though,” Dwalin waves an arm towards Azog, “struttin’ about here like he own the place. God damn that beard is ugly as sin.”

Thorin agrees. Of course he does. People give Azog a wide birth as he walks, because he’s known as a bit of a Beard Diva. There are a lot of Beard Divas at the competitions. Those in the know tend to avoid them as best as possible.

There’s one who doesn’t seem to be in the know, however, and he’s too busy looking down at his camera to notice that he’s about to have a collision. Thorin braces himself and watches them bump, and Azog snarls something unpleasant, but then there’s a small hand reaching in between them and a short man with a ridiculous head of curls is smiling politely at him and introducing himself. Azog seems to be rather interested all of a sudden, so Thorin can only assume they’re from some kind of media outlet. He watches with interest, appraising the two of them. The photographer (Thorin’s assuming he’s the photographer anyway) is a tall man with brown hair and a bored look about him. Like he’s just waiting for the day to be over. Thorin can sympathise. There’s a lot of egos tied into these things, and Thorin’s met more than a few competitors who have an inflated sense of worth because of their facial hair. Which is stupid, but it happens, so…

The second man, the one with the ridiculous hair, looks a bit uncomfortable with Azog standing so close. He’s not very tall at all. In fact, he’s rather small, and if they were passing each other on the street Thorin might not even notice him because of it. But there’s something about him that’s enthralling when you pay attention. He’s got this light to his eyes, and an amused smile on his lips, and he talks with passion, hands waving about, that it becomes slightly hypnotising. Thorin’s having a hard time trying to look away. Not that he wants to. He’s got nice hands, and long, nimble fingers, and he pulls at his lip a little while he’s listening to whatever trash Azog is saying. They’re pretty and red, his lips, and there’s a pleasant curve there, even when he’s not smiling. Thorin can’t help imagining what they’d look like if they were-

“Probably braggin’ about his stupid beard,” Dwalin comments, dragging Thorin out of his fantasies.

Thorin tears his gaze away from the journalist to look at his friend. “Probably,” he returns calmly. “Who’s he with?”

“Ah, I recognise the taller one: Bard Something-or-rather, used to be a photographer for some war correspondence thing.” When Thorin looks at him with a raised eyebrow, Dwalin just shrugs and explains. “Ori took me to see it like five times when they did an exhibition on it. The photos were alright.”

“And the other one?”

“Not a clue. Obviously a journalist. Only someone trained in listening to bullshit could stand listening to Azog for so long.”

Thorin snorts and turns to watch once more as Azog shakes hands with the men and they part ways. After he’s gone, Thorin notices the smaller man leaning up to whisper something to the taller one, Bard, and Bard snorts and laughs loudly, and elbows him.

Thorin’s never wanted to know what a stranger has said so badly before.

**

Someone actually let Bilbo stroke their beard. This is like _Christmas_.

“I’m getting you one of those beard mugs before we leave,” Bard announces as they eat lunch, surrounded by beard fanatics. “So you can have coffee at work in it.”

“Like people don’t think I’m obsessed enough?” Bilbo asks, but he’s grinning.

Bard just shrugs, smiling himself. “Thought I’d make it glaringly obvious- so people know when to run to avoid you, you know?”

“Of course,” Bilbo laughs, throwing down his fork. “We can’t be friends anymore, not after this treacherous betrayal.”

Bard just shrugs and stabs his fork through some lettuce before shovelling it all into his mouth. “So why beards?” he asks after chewing thoughtfully.

“Apart from the fact that they’re like clouds on your face?” Bilbo returns. “I don’t know. I just like them. You know, everyone likes something. I just like beards.” He liked running his fingers through something, tangling them through the tresses, and tugging, pulling a head down to meet his.

“Why don’t you just grow one?”

“You really think I would suit a beard? _Me_?”

Bard thinks about it before laughing. “Nah, you’re right.”

“Exactly,” Bilbo tells him. “So I just pine away while others grow their miraculous facial hair. Not everyone can pull it off.”

“That’s true,” Bard agrees. “My grandmother, for example, has the worst moustache I’ve ever seen.”

Bilbo laughs so hard he almost falls off his chair.

They get some alright stuff that afternoon, but Bilbo doesn’t see Thorin Oakenshield anywhere, so he doesn’t count it as a good day. No matter, he’ll find him soon, for the magazine, of course. Yes, the magazine. And also for his personal enjoyment… just a little bit.

They check into a hotel down the road from where the competition is being hosted and after uploading the photos and writing a quick introductory article for the magazine’s website, they turn in for the night.

**

The judging starts today, and Bilbo turns up early to get a look at all the competitors getting ready. Some know him personally by now, Bilbo having introduced himself to many of them yesterday, and are keen to give him their opinions on how today’ll pan out.

One even buys him a coffee and lets him help with brushing his beard, which Bilbo finds kind of ridiculously attractive. He’s just trying not to say anything embarrassing or trip over himself with all these good-looking bearded-people around.

He’s finding a place to dump the last little bit of his coffee that’s gone cold when he bumps into someone, knocking the lid off the takeaway cup and splashing it all over the man’s jeans.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Bilbo abandons the now empty cup in favour of searching his pockets for his handkerchief. Its old school, he knows, but he likes to carry one anyway. “I’m such a klutz- but at least it’s not hot, right?”

He’s helping the man dab the coffee on his thighs, which is admittedly probably weird, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining. Besides, Bilbo’s too busy babbling awkwardly.

“It’s not even the first time I’ve done this to someone before- although usually I’m spilling it on myself rather than them, I really am sorry.” He looks up now, and comes face-to-face with the most awkward situation he’ll probably ever encounter.

“It’s fine,” Thorin Oakenshield waves it off, still dabbing his jeans with a napkin. “They’re just jeans. It’ll wash right out.”

“I feel terrible,” Bilbo manages, voice squeaking a little. “I should make it up to you- I’m so sorry-”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a coffee, if you insist on doing something to pay me back,” Thorin suggests.

“Oh,” Bilbo feels his eyes widen as he speaks. “Yes! Okay. I can do that.”

Thorin chuckles, and it’s deep and warm and _god_ Bilbo’s just resisting the urge to throw himself on top of the man and do various things that would probably get him arrested for doing in public. Not to mention they probably wouldn’t be welcome with Thorin.

Bilbo manages to lead the way to the kiosk where he’d gotten his drink without doing something to embarrass himself, like blurt out that he’s been in love with Thorin for like two years now even though they’ve never met. Now wouldn’t that be awkward?

Thorin orders, and Bilbo pays, and gets another coffee for himself because to hell with his health, he’s standing with _Thorin Oakenshield_ who cares if he’s jittery from the overconsumption of caffeine?

He manages to ask Thorin some questions, and Thorin agrees to letting Bard take some pictures of him and his team later, when he shows up. Which means Bilbo will get to see him again. He’s trying not to be too deliriously happy about that when Azog shows up.

“Mister Baggins,” he’s grinning as he speaks. “Good to see you again.”

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo tells him. “And it’s Bilbo. Just Bilbo.”

“Bilbo,” Azog purrs, and it’s _really_ disturbing. “I see you’ve been talking to the competition.”

“Got to interview everyone,” Bilbo returns. “Besides, Thorin’s won more than you have, so he’s probably the best person to talk to for my articles- people will know him more.”

He thinks he’s probably said something to offend Azog because he’s scowling now and Thorin snorts in amusement behind him. “Speaking of,” Thorin interrupts, “I hate to breakup your catch-up, but I was going to introduce Bilbo to the rest of my team.”

Azog sneers, but he leaves, stalking past them on his way to sign in. Bilbo exhales noisily, “He’s awfully dramatic, isn’t he?”

“You should have seen him last year,” Thorin remarks with a roll of his eyes. “He seems to think he’s God’s gift to the world.”

“Some people are like that,” Bilbo says, shrugging, and allows himself to be steered God only knows where, but he can’t really find it in himself to care because _Thorin Oakenshield is holding his forearm. Thorin Oakenshield has touched him. He’s had direct, skin-to-skin contact with Thorin Oakenshield._ God help him he might just overload here and now.

“Well, hopefully you don’t think we’re all like that,” Thorin is saying now. “Some of us aren’t as egotistical as he is.”

“Were you very mad when you lost?” Bilbo can’t help but put his foot in it.

Thorin looks a little irate at the memory, but he doesn’t seem angry at Bilbo’s question, so he figures he’s dodged a bullet. “I would have been more gracious if I’d thought he had a chance of winning in the first place. Not to sound rude, of course. But his beard is…”

“Less majestic than yours?”

Thorin laughs, throwing his head back. His whole body goes into it: his shoulders shaking, his chest moving up and down… it’s embarrassingly beautiful.

He answers as Bilbo blushes. “There was an outroar: I’m supposing you already know, because you would have had to do your research. A lot of people thought he’d cheated. I thought he’d cheated. Hell, I still do. But there wasn’t much we could do about it at the time. People try to cheat; it’s a fact of life. But he won’t get away with it this time.”

Bilbo finds himself nodding. “It was ridiculous,” he agrees, “the beard is better now than it was last year, but it’s still not up to par. I don’t even know how he qualifies for these things.”

Thorin looks pleased at Bilbo’s words. “He’s an intimidating person,” he replies, as they come to a stop in front of some room. He knocks quietly on the door. “I mean, just look at that face.”

Bilbo can’t help but giggle a little as the door is thrown open, revealing a tall and disgruntled looking man. He’s bald, and heavily tattooed, but his beard is long and absolutely fantastic. Bilbo wonders if he’s competing. “Where have you been?” the man demands, before looking at Bilbo. “And your friend…?”

“This is Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin introduces. “He’s a journalist. Bilbo, this is Dwalin, a long time friend.”

Dwalin offers a beefy hand, and the grip surprisingly gentle. “Nice to meet you. Come on, in.”

**

Thorin is watching the journalist laugh at something Balin says, and regardless of what teasing things Dwalin tells him, he is _not_ being creepy. He’s just… watching. There’s nothing wrong with looking.

He can see a lot more of Bilbo now that he’s closer. Like the mole that just slips into sight when the collar of his shirt is pulled the right way, and the freckles over his left cheek, and the slight upturn of his nose…

It’s not creepy. He’s just… appreciating. Yes, that’s it: appreciating. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating. Besides, he’s not the only one who seems to have noticed anyway. Azog’s taken quite a liking to him. Thorin doesn’t like that, but there’s nothing he can really do about it, is there? Short of shoving Azog’s head through a wall- but that’s kind of illegal.

Besides, he’s wanted to do that to Azog since they first met. Everyone has.

“So how do you all prepare for the judging?” Bilbo’s asking.

“Lots of brushin’ and stylin’,” Dwalin answers. “Sometimes a bit of a pep talk.”

Bilbo laughs. “Like what?”

“Eh, you know. I knew someone who put on hard rock to get in the mood for it.”

Bilbo looks absolutely delighted at the idea of it. “And what do you do to prepare?” he asks Dwalin.

“He drinks,” Thorin says from across the room, and Dwalin shoots him a glare, but Bilbo laughs again, so Thorin thinks it’s worth it.

“Have you ever had any bad judgements before?”

“Oh, all the time. Balin was once told he looked like a scraggly Mountain Goat.”

“What?” Bilbo turns to look at Balin. “I think your beard is very nice, Mister Balin. Very distinguished and not at all like a scraggly Mountain Goat.”

Balin smiles, pleased, and strokes said beard now. “Why, thank you.”

“And yours looks very nice as well, Dwalin. How long have you grown it for?”

Thorin tries not to feel too upset that Bilbo hasn’t mentioned _his_ beard, when Dwalin shrugs and answers. “I’ve been growing it since I could grow hair at all.”

“But you trim it, obviously.”

“Ori doesn’t want it too long.”

“Ori?” Bilbo asks.

“His fiancé,” Balin explains.

“Ah,” Bilbo says. “He’s not a big fan of beards, then?” he wonders.

“He’s got nothing against ‘em,” Dwalin replies. “Just says he doesn’t want me lookin’ like a wizard.”

Bilbo’s in hysterics now, doubling over and holding his stomach. It’s utterly entertaining.

But it’s almost time for judging and Bilbo has to go and find his photographer, so he grins and leaves with a wave, promising to be back later to talk to them again.

Dwalin makes kissing noises after the door closes and Thorin throws a comb at him and hits him right in the nose.

“You’re lucky I’m not competing this year,” Dwalin mutters a few minutes later, pressing a tissue to the cut as they head towards the judging room.

**

The judging goes… well, the judging goes as expected. It goes all day, and by the end the first round of people are knocked out, and there’s only twelve left by the time Bilbo’s thinking about afternoon tea.

Balin is kind enough to offer for him and Bard to come and eat with them, so Bard can set up a time and place for the pictures, and Bilbo gratefully accepts, wondering if it’s rude to stuff his face and ask questions at the same time. He concentrates on the first thing to begin with, and then works on the latter once he’s feeling reasonably full. Thorin isn’t with them, he’s apparently having a word to one of the judges about something. Balin says it’s something to do with unreasonable behaviour, and Bilbo’s fairly sure Azog’s said something to another competitor. He tries to get more information, but Balin doesn’t have much more information, so Bilbo figures he’s just going to have to find out himself later.

The bright side is, it’s an excuse to find Thorin and talk to him some more. And Bilbo is more than okay with that.

He doesn’t find Thorin until about six that night, however, stumbling across him in a bar. It’s fairly clear he’s had a few, and he looks like he’s about to fall asleep where he’s sitting, so Bilbo supposes he’s doing him a favour by preventing him from passing out in a public place. He slides into the stool beside him and taps him on the shoulder. “You alright?”

Thorin looks over at him and blinks slowly, before smiling widely. “Look who it is!” he slips a little in his char, almost falling off, and Bilbo manages to catch him before he does any major damage.

“I think you may have had one too many,” Bilbo says, feeling his cheeks heat up when Thorin doesn’t move and stays leaning against him, face in his shoulder.

Thorin just mumbles something into Bilbo’s shirt, and Bilbo manages to help him sit back up properly. “Maybe I should take you to your room.” His hands linger on Thorin’s shoulders. “How many did you have?”

“Only two,” Thorin insists, slurring a little.

Bilbo can’t help but laugh. “Sure, sure.”

“No, really,” he shakes his head, like he’s trying to concentrate. “Only two,” he insists, gentler this time.

“Alright,” Bilbo tells him. “Alright, I believe you.”

Thorin seems oddly pleased.

“How about I go and get Dwalin, eh? Or Balin?”

Thorin shakes his head. “Nah,” he says.

“Nah?” Bilbo asks.

“Nah,” Thorin reiterates. “All good.” He makes move to stand, and then collapses onto the floor.

Bilbo swears, sliding off and kneeling on the ground beside him, but Thorin is snoring loudly, and his chest is moving up and down, so he relaxes.

“Christ,” he runs a hand over his face. “So much for finding out what happened with Azog today.” He can’t carry Thorin by himself, so he gets to his feet and shoots the bartender a desperate look. “Can you look after him for two minutes? I just have to get his friend to…”

The bartender waves him off, telling him to go, and Bilbo darts out of the bar and goes to find Dwalin’s room. Dwalin, hilariously enough, is in pyjama’s and a robe, with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a phone to his ear when Bilbo barges in.

“Thorin’s unconscious in the bar,” he begins, and Dwalin swears though a mouthful of toothpaste before apologising to whoever it was on the phone and hastily pulling on some clothes.

It seems they’re just fast enough, because upon coming back into the bar they find Thorin, now sprawled out on a shitty leather sofa on the other side of the room with Azog leaning over him, a pair of scissors in hand.

“Oi!” Dwalin runs over, probably ready to thrash Azog, but Azog drops the scissors and runs for it, leaving Dwalin to throw his hands up and take stock of his friend. “Christ.”

“What is it?” Bilbo asks, catching up now and looking Thorin up and down. “What’s wrong?”

Dwalin gestures at him. “He’s cut his damn beard!”

Thankfully it’s nothing to dramatic. Azog really only had the chance to cut a bit off the bottom before they caught him, so it’s a little uneven, but nothing to panic over.

“Help me get ‘im up, would you?” Dwalin asks, hooking one of Thorin’s arms over his shoulder ad hauling him to his feet. Bilbo scrambles to help, although in the end he isn’t much at all. He’s certainly not strong enough to help cart someone Thorin’s size anywhere.

They get him upstairs and into his room and they throw him on his bed. “He’s goin’ to be pissed when he wakes up,” Dwalin says, shaking his head.

“Well, it’s not too bad. You can fix it, right?”

Dwalin nods. “Yeah. But we shouldn’t have to. Only bright side is that Azog’ll be disqualified for this, no doubt.”

“He’d better be,” Bilbo announces. “I can’t believe he did that. And you know, Thorin said he’d only had two drinks before he passed out. You don’t think…”

Dwalin growls. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he spits. “I’ll be dealin’ with it in the morning.”

“Is he going to be alright?” Bilbo nods in Thorin’s direction.

“Yeah. He’ll probably have one hell of a headache, but he’ll be alright.”

Bilbo just nods, and darts about as Dwalin starts to unlace Thorin’s boots. “Here, let me…” He makes quick work of the other one and then together they haul Thorin up and manage to remove his jacket.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to get much else off. Besides, there’s only so much we can do that let’s Thorin keep his dignity.”

Bilbo finds himself reddening in embarrassment. “Right. Yes,” he manages, awkwardly holding Thorin’s jacket in his hands, not sure what to do with it.

“Here,” Dwalin takes it from him. “I’ll just-” he moves over to the other side of the room to shove it in the cupboard, which is weird because Bilbo didn’t realise people actually _used_ those cupboards, but he doesn’t ruminate over it for long because Thorin wakes up briefly, blinking up at him in confusion.

“Bilbo?” he asks.

Bilbo sits down on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Thorin pulls a face. “Weird,” he says.

Bilbo nods. “We think you may have been drugged.”

Thorin blinks, brow furrowing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bilbo tells him. “But we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“Are you going to write about it?” Thorin asks, words slurring together. Bilbo can only just make them out.

“Not unless you say it’s okay,” Bilbo tells him honestly. “But I hadn’t thought about it until you suggested it then.”

“Are you going to stay?”

“Uh… I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, you’ve got Dwalin here,” he nods in the man’s direction. “He’ll look after you.”

Thorin rolls over a little to get a look at him and makes an affirmative noise before rolling onto his stomach and falling asleep.

“Right, well…” Bilbo gets up. “I’d better get to bed, myself. Lots to do tomorrow, and, uh… I’ll see you in the morning. Talk to you about Azog then.”

Dwalin nods. “We’ll talk about it then,” he agrees.

Bilbo wonders how Thorin will react when he wakes up.

**

Thorin is going to kill Azog. He’s going to find him and wring his neck.

He’s lost two whole inches off of his beard now, and it doesn’t look right. He runs his hands through it, trying to think of how to trim it so it looks at least halfway decent.

Dwalin is leaning against the bathroom doorway, watching him. “I can’t believe he spiked your drink.”

“I didn’t even notice,” Thorin sulks. “He was all up in my face talking nonsense and he must have slipped it in then. And who even does that, anyway? Who just drugs someone’s drink so they can cut that person’s beard? He’s insane!” He could have done a lot worse; Thorin wouldn’t put it past him, so he supposes he’s lucky, but that’s not the point. It’s all just so mortifying. If his sister hears he was drugged and his beard got cut by a competitor she’d never let him live it down. “You’d better not tell anyone about this,” he growls.

Not to mention Bilbo had been privy to the whole embarrassing debacle.

Thorin knows his beard isn’t everything. He knows that. But he can’t help but wonder what Bilbo thinks of him now he has less of a beard. And he feels embarrassed to have Bilbo see him in such a… vulnerable state.

So he’s a bit vain, he _knows_ that. But he just doesn’t want to look like some sort of troll, especially not around Bilbo. And last night he probably had, drunk and slurring, with bits of his beard chopped off. Christ.

Speaking of Bilbo. “Well, everyone will know about it if Bilbo writes about it.”

“He wants to write about it?” Thorin demands, straightening. He turns to look at Dwalin fully.

“He said he might last night, but only with our permission.”

Thorin relaxes a little. “Right,” he turns back to the mirror, gesturing at himself. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Dwalin shrugs. “Could have been worse.”

Thorin supposes he’s right, but that doesn’t ease his ego any.

Balin comes into the room some time later, bearing some bad news.

“What do you mean he won’t be disqualified?!” Thorin cries. “He attacked me! Drugged me! He should be arrested.”

“They say we can’t prove it. And Azog has an alibi,” Balin rolls his eyes, “apparently.”

Dwalin swears. “That son of a-”

Thorin resists the urge to punch the wall, because he knows that isn’t a good idea. “Someone find me some scissors, I’m going to find that bastard and chop his beard off, and then I’m going to chop off his-”

“There are better ways to get back at him,” Balin returns calmly.

“Oh, yeah?” Thorin asks. “Like what?”

Balin just grins.

**

Bilbo’s in the middle of interviewing one of the five finalists that afternoon when there’s a shriek from the stairs, and Azog sweeps down the hall, shouting. There’s a sudden outbreak of laughter, and Bilbo doesn’t realise why until he comes closer.

Once he catches sight of Bilbo he stomps over, shouting. “Where is he?!” he demands. “I know he did this!”

“Where is who?” Bilbo queries calmly, but he can’t resist adding: “And why did you dye your beard _blonde_?”

Azog’s beard is even worse than it was before; bleach having been applied in patchy areas. Some of it was orange, some of it was blonde, some of it was white, and most of it looks frazzled and split, like it was falling apart from the damage done by the chemicals.

Bilbo has to press a hand to his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

“I did not!” shrieks Azog. “ _They_ put bleach in my shampoo! _They_ sabotaged my beard!”

“Who did?” Bilbo wonders.

“Those damn Durin bastards!” Azog snarls.

“And why would they do that?” he asks Azog in reply, smiling a little.

“Because-” Azog cuts himself off, as if just realising what he was about to say.

“Yes?” Bilbo prods. He wonders if Azog will admit it now that they’ve hit back. Because he can’t. He can’t admit, loudly and in front of everyone, that he sabotaged Thorin first and that’s why they’ve sabotaged him back.

So instead he just shouts out in anger and stalks off.

“Well, that was interesting,” says Radagast. “Do you want to keep asking me about my beard?”

“Oh, yes.” Bilbo tells him, turning his attention back to the man. “Isn’t it unhealthy to let a bird nest there? Is it very hard to clean?”

“Oh, no,” Radagast waves a hand, “not at all.”

Bilbo’s not sure he believes him.

**

Thorin tries his best not to be too disappointed when Bard shows up to take some photos for the articles without Bilbo. He doesn’t sulk at all. Really, he doesn’t, not at all.

Bard asks about the ‘incident’ and Thorin would have been more than happy to tell him about Azog going to such desperate lengths to sabotage him, but Balin has instructed him otherwise, so Thorin just smiles and talks about the friendly prank-war that goes on between all the competitors, and Dwalin casually adds that everyone’s friends here and there’s no real animosity. Which everyone knows is a lie, but whatever. Bard doesn’t seem to buy it either, but he just shrugs and gets on with his work.

“Do you think Azog will retaliate?” Dwalin asks later, when they’re heading downstairs to go and get something to eat for lunch. “I mean, the finals in two days. If he’s going to hit back, it’ll be soon.”

“Do you think he’d be that stupid?” Thorin asks, because after his first try Azog should really have learnt his lesson. But then again, it’s Azog, so…

Dwalin shrugs. “I just think we ought to be on alert. That guy is crazy.”

Balin nods in agreement. “We’ll just have to be careful,” he says. “Steer clear of him and we’ll be fine.”

A bit easier said than done, however, because they find Azog at the café across the road from the hotel (although that’s not surprising in the slightest: there are a lot of competitors that come here), leaning into Bilbo’s personal space. When he catches sight of Thorin he grins.

There seems to be a bit of a competition between them for more than the title, it seems.

“Come on,” Dwalin says, “we’d better save the poor lad. Before you have a coronary and go over there and kill Azog yourself.”

Thorin doesn’t have anything to say in reply to that, and instead he just follows Dwalin over to the table Bilbo’s at while Balin rolls his eyes and goes and orders for them.

“You mind if we sit?” Dwalin asks Bilbo, taking a seat anyway before he can even answer. “Hate to interrupt, of course,” he adds, not even looking at Azog.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Bilbo looks insanely grateful, and it makes Thorin irrationally gleeful. “It’s good to see you. I was wondering if we’d get to catch up before the final judging round.”

“Of course,” Thorin says. “I’d hate for you to be spoiled with bad company.” He shoots Azog a quick look. “You know how certain people can be.”

Bilbo’s lips flicker upwards slightly, but he manages not to smile. “Yes, well,” he clears his throat, “it’s been a busy few days for me. So many finalists to interview: and so many beards.”

“Some better than others,” Azog dryly states, not looking away from Thorin. “Your beard does seem a little bit… thin today, Thorin. _Shorter_. Is something perhaps wrong with it?”

“Nothing at all,” Thorin returns calmly and politely. “I’m pleased to see you didn’t stick with the blonde. Such a bad colour choice for you to make so close to the finals, don’t you think Dwalin?”

“I don’t know,” Dwalin replies honestly. “I think it might have been an improvement.”

Bilbo snorts in amusement, but disguises it as coughing. It’s quite convincing, Thorin’s rather impressed.

Azog huffs. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” he declares, standing up. “I’ll be seeing you at the finals, Bilbo?” Thorin doesn’t like the look Azog’s giving Bilbo now, but there’s not much he can do short of grabbing Azog’s head and slamming it into the table. Actually, that’s not a bad idea...

He’s genuinely considering it when Bilbo replies. “Oh, yes,” he tells Azog. “I can’t miss _that_. It’ll be rather interesting. I remember watching last years- but I had to watch it online, you see, I couldn’t make it. I was covering protests up north about equal marriage rights.”

“Well, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed,” Azog announces. “I’ll come and find you after.” And then he’s gone, and Bilbo’s making a face.

“He’s very…”

“Annoying?” Thorin supplies.

“Rude?” Dwalin suggests.

“Foul?”

“Disgusting?”

“Well, I was going to say dramatic, but…” Bilbo trails off as Balin comes over. “Hello, Balin!” he positively beams. “How nice to see you out and about!”

They then dive deep into a conversation about some political coup d'état in some country that Thorin hadn’t heard about, and Dwalin just shrugs as him so he supposes he doesn’t know either. But Balin is into that kind of stuff and Bilbo’s a journalist, so it’s probably obvious that they would share knowledge of those sorts of things.

Thorin doesn’t mind anyway, not really, because he can watch Bilbo go on and on passionately about things, waving his hands about emphatically.

Bilbo talks with movement, like his whole body is tied into his mouth and Thorin starts wonder if he’d be so zealous about other things as well. If his toes would curl when Thorin-

Dwalin elbows him in the solar plexus, because he was very clearly being glaringly obvious with the direction of his thoughts- but Bilbo doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps waxing poetical about the freedom of the press to Balin.

Well after they’ve finished eating, and spent a ridiculous amount of money on gourmet coffees, Dwalin starts hinting that he and Balin ought to let Bilbo and Thorin walk back on their own. He’s so bad at it, in fact, that even Bilbo notices: and Bilbo is completely oblivious by nature. Thorin might not have known him for long, but he at least knows that about him.

“That was odd,” Bilbo remarks as Dwalin tugs Balin out of the café. “Why do you think they were in such a hurry to leave?”

Thorin finds himself shrugging casually. “Dwalin’s like that. Always somewhere to go and something to do. He never stops moving.” It’s not even a lie, either. He’s rather proud of his quick thinking.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to the hotel anyway. Did you want to grab another coffee to go before leaving?”

Thorin shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “But I’ll wait if you want to.”

“I think I’ve had quite enough, actually,” he says, pressing a hand to his stomach, like that explained things. “Well, look at me,” he looks delighted, “practicing self-restraint. That’s a new one.”

Thorin laughs and gets to his feet.

“So you, ah, didn’t want to go with the original story about Azog?” Bilbo asks as they walk. It’s quiet around town right now, the lull after lunch where everyone’s too busy trying not to nap to do anything of importance.

“Oh,” Thorin replies. “Balin said it’d be better if we… you know… didn’t.”

Bilbo shrugs, seemingly unperturbed. “That’s alright,” he tells Thorin. “The drama would have been good for the article- but the prank-war’s a pretty good angle, too. Besides, I think the beards are enough to draw in readers.”

“You really like beards, then, do you?” Thorin asks, and watches Bilbo flush.

“Well, yes,” Bilbo replies, looking at his feet. “Beards are great.”

Thorin wants to push at his buttons, to keep talking about it, to make him even more flustered, but he doesn’t.

Instead he just goes with his first impulse and leans down, capturing Bilbo’s lips and pushing him against the wall.

Bilbo lets out a surprised noise, but doesn’t fight. He just sort of melts into it, hands reaching up and resting against Thorin’s shoulders.

Thorin manages to break away after a moment. “I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back, “I should have asked first-” But Bilbo’s hands are grabbing his beard and tugging him back down, rather effectively cutting his sentence off by smashing their lips together again. Thorin thinks he’s accidentally split one of Bilbo’s lips from the force of it, but that doesn’t stop him.

“Why are you even apologising?” Bilbo speaks into his mouth. “Why are you spending time talking when we could be using it so much more effectively?” He pulls on Thorin’s beard again and the tug does straight through his body and down to his groin.

He deepens the kiss, tunnelling his hands through Bilbo’s hair like he can drag him even closer, even though there’s not an atom of room left between them anymore. But he needs air: they both need air, so Thorin pulls away again and tries to compose himself. They’re still in public, so it’s not like they can jump each other out here. Well, they could, but Bilbo might not be keen on that sort of thing, and neither would the police.

Bilbo’s fingers are still tangled in Thorin’s beard. “So you like beards, huh?” he asks.

Bilbo blushes. “Well, I-I said I did,” he stutters, not meeting Thorin’s eyes.

Thorin grins. “I don’t mind,” he says. “In fact, I quite like it.”

Bilbo groans in embarrassment and presses his hands to his face. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing,” Thorin replies honestly. “Come back to my room.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Bilbo tells him, dropping his hands. “At least not now.”

Thorin’s not deterred in the slightest. “Then come to my room after the judging.”

“Won’t you want to celebrate your win with your friends?”

Thorin just shrugs. “I’d rather celebrate with you.”

Bilbo meets his eyes again, finally. “You would?” he seems dubious.

Thorin presses a quick kiss to the corner of Bilbo’s mouth, because he doesn’t have the self-restraint to do any more. “I would,” he says.

Bilbo’s face lights up, and it’s the most delightful thing Thorin’s ever seen.

But his phone rings, ruining the moment, before Thorin gets the chance to kiss him again.

“It’s Bard,” Bilbo says, by way of apology, and Thorin just waves it off and lets Bilbo take the call.

They’ll have plenty of time for that later anyway.

**

“I _kissed him_! I _touched his beard-_ oh my God.”

Bilbo’s in a bit of a daze.

“What was it like?” Bard asks, looking morbidly curious about the whole thing.

“It was so _soft_ , Bard. Like cotton!” Bilbo can’t even cope with this right now.

Bard laughs at him. “You’re so red in the face right now I’m resisting the urge to take a photo and use it for blackmail later.”

Bilbo presses his hands to his face now, feeling how hot his cheeks are. “I’m so embarrassed, Bard. It was in the middle of the street! Anyone could have seen. I don’t do that. I don’t know what came over me.”

Bard quirks one brow. “I think I do,” he teases, and Bilbo punches his shoulder.

“Shut up and show me your photos,” Bilbo says to change the subject, because he doesn’t need to think about this right now.

“So do you think they’ll be any more ‘pranks’?” Bard asks sometime later, lounging on the sofa while Bilbo flicks through the pictures on his camera.

“I’m not sure,” Bilbo replies, “it’s getting close to the finals now, so maybe there’ll be a last ditch attempt in desperation, but I don’t think anything major will happen. I think they’ll play it safe. Both of them.”

Bard thinks about it before replying. “Whoever knew beard championships could be so… bitchy.”

Bilbo sets the camera down and throws his arms wide. “Welcome to the wonderful world of beards,” he declares.

“Ugh,” Bard says. “It’s like the Mafia. I’ve been sucked in and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to escape now.”

Bilbo shrugs.

**

It’s the last day of competition and everyone’s tense. Dwalin very clearly hasn’t slept, and has obstinately snapped at Thorin when he scolds him for it, saying that he was making sure Azog didn’t play no funny business while everyone else was sleeping. Thorin’s fairly certain it’s sexual frustration keeping him up, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows the feeling. Balin just sighs and buys and extra large coffee for him before they make for the convention centre.

The place is packed, because hell, this _is_ the championships, and it’s the final judging, so the winner will be announced today. Thorin cranes his neck, looking over the swarm of people, trying to find Bilbo, but he gives up after a while, following Balin to their room. Ori’s waiting for them, along with Nori, like they promised, and they both look as tired as Dwalin. Of course, Ori’s here _because_ of Dwalin, whereas Nori is only here because of _Ori_. He and Dwalin frown at each other from across the room. At least until Balin scolds his brother and Ori scolds his. Then the tension dissipates (albeit a little reluctantly on Nori and Dwalin’s behalf) and Balin gives Thorin a pep talk.

He knows it sounds lame, but it kind of works. Balin’s always been good with giving wise words, and making Thorin feel better about things, and he’s been a trusted confidant for many years. Of course Dwalin is also, but Balin doesn’t mock him as much as Dwalin does, so it’s nice to have that sometimes.

“You’ll be right,” Dwalin says, dismissively, after Balin’s finished talking. “Azog looks like a rat with a beard stapled on: there’s no way he’ll win.”

“So eloquent,” Thorin teases, “you should get into political writing.”

Dwalin rolls his eyes.

Azog’s there, with his posse. They look like Mean Girls. Thorin’s trying not to laugh when they pass by.

He doesn’t seem to be the only one.

“ _On Wednesdays we wear pink_ ,” Nori comments, shrilly and nasally, and Dwalin and Ori burst into laughter.

There are a few others, some who haven’t moved onto further rounds but are here to support their friends, or just see how things turn out. Radagast is here, and Thorin’s fairly certain the bird he houses in his beard has now made a nest in his hair. Gandalf is here as well, but only to watch in amusement and stroke his own beard.

He still can’t see Bilbo, and he’s so preoccupied looking for him that he almost misses the call for the finalists to get ready.

Dwalin pushes him towards the stage and Ori insists that they’ll find Bilbo while the judges are looking at them.

Azog snarls some insult at Thorin while they stand next to each other, waiting for their turn on the stage, but Thorin just ignores it and smiles. He’s… eager, and not for the scores. Hell, right now he doesn’t even really care if he wins or not. Because he can see Bard, and that means Bilbo is nearby, and he’s here, waiting for Thorin.

“What are you smirking about?” Azog growls when Thorin’s had his turn showing off his beard to the spectators and has returned to the line.

“Just things,” Thorin says. He’s oddly confident… not that he wasn’t confident before, of course; he just feels even better now. He doesn’t even know _why_ , though.

It was just a _kiss_. But then it wasn’t just as kiss as well. It was more than that.

He can’t explain it.

Besides, it’ll be more than a kiss later.

Azog does his little turn about the stage, strutting, and comes back to his place at Thorin’s side as the judge’s whisper to each other, trying to make a decision.

There’s only a first and a second place, and seeing as there’s five of them, there’s going to be a few people going home disappointed today.

The judge raises his hand to silence everybody and stands to take the microphone from the MC.

“We’ve come to a decision,” he announces, and everyone falls silent. “First of all, in second place, Thorin Oakenshield!”

There’s loud applause, and he can hear someone wolf whistling as he goes to get the award. He shakes hands with the judges, poses for some pictures, and then goes back to his spot.

Azog snorts at him. “Not so cocky now, are you?”

Thorin just shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter, all things considered.”

“I’ve just beaten you,” Azog says. “ _Again_. Why the hell wouldn’t that matter?” He looks genuinely confused, so Thorin supposes it’s in his duty to explain things properly.

“Because I’m taking Bilbo Baggins back to my room when this is over,” he replies casually.

Azog chokes and reddens.

“And in first place,” the judge is declaring now, diverting their attention, “this year’s winner, and the Lord of the Beards: _Radagast Brown_!”

Radagast… _really_?

Funnily enough, Radagast seems as surprised as everyone else does, and he stumbles up to the judges to accept first prize.

Thorin hooks his trophy under his arm and claps. “Good for him,” he says, before glancing at Azog. “Bad luck, you not winning this year. But hey, there’s always next year, isn’t there?” He leaves before Azog can formulate a reply.

Bilbo’s waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “Care to give me a scoop for my article?” he asks, grinning.

Thorin grabs him and kisses him hard. “I can give you _something_ but I don’t think its article appropriate.”

Bilbo laughs. “Come on, you. You have fans who want to congratulate you.”

Thorin is deliberating whether he should complain or just pick Bilbo up and carry him back to the hotel, but Dwalin’s suddenly there giving him a crushing hug, and Balin’s patting his back, and Bard wants a photo… so he doesn’t end up doing either of those things.

But that’s okay, he can be patient. He’s pretty good at that when he wants to be.

**

There’s been far too much drinking and Bilbo’s just going to have the worst headache in the world by the time morning comes along. He’s happy though, so he figures a bit of a sore head tomorrow is worth it.

But he doesn’t have time to think about that now, because he’s being drunkenly urged into the elevator and then down the hall to Thorin’s room.

It takes Thorin four goes to get the key in the lock, but when he does Bilbo pushes him through the doorway and kicks it shut behind him, practically throwing himself on top of him.

Thorin staggers under the sudden extra weight, but manages to stay upright, which is impressive for someone who’s had seven beers and three shots of tequila.

Somehow they make it to the bed without any major accidents, although Thorin does accidentally drop Bilbo once.

Or twice.

It doesn’t matter.

Bilbo’s dropped for a third time now, although this one is on the bed, thankfully, and he scrambles onto his knees and helps Thorin pull off his shirt before making quick work of his belt and trousers.

Thorin seems perfectly content to let Bilbo do all the work, and it makes him a little frustrated so he huffs and grabs Thorin by the shoulders, pulling him onto the bed and shoving him down onto his back. “You’re no fun,” he pants, unbuttoning his own shirt.

“Too distracted to be fun,” Thorin replies vaguely, grabbing at Bilbo.

“Pity,” Bilbo leans in and kisses him, biting down gently on Thorin’s bottom lip and pulling.

Thorin groans, but then there’s a loud knock on the door, cutting the moment short.

“ _God_ _damn it_!”

**

Thorin pulls on his trousers and yanks the door open in frustration.

“ _What_?” he demands.

“Hey, I’m just being your guardian angel and making sure you’re doing everythin’ right-”

“I swear to God,” Thorin says now, “I will rip your throat out, Dwalin.”

Dwalin rolls his eyes and pushes something into Thorin’s hands. “You’ll thank me later,” he sing-songs, disappearing down the hall.

Thorin closes the door and snorts when he realises what’s in his hand.

“What is it?” Bilbo asks from the bed.

“A condom,” he explains.

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “What, like he didn’t think you’d have one already?”

Thorin just shrugs. “Just being a bro,” he snarks.

Bilbo laughs, grabbing Thorin by his hair and pulling him back to the bed. “Come here.”

Thorin’s certainly not arguing. He traps Bilbo below him and kisses him again, and Bilbo entwines his fingers in Thorin’s beard and pulls, making him groan at the sharp pain it elicits.

Bilbo stills for a moment. “Do you like that?” he asks, looking shy about it.

Like Thorin wouldn’t say yes.

Like Thorin didn’t like _everything_ Bilbo did.

“ _Of_ _course_ I like that,” Thorin gruffly tells him.

Bilbo smiles a little and tugs again, playfully.

Thorin nuzzles into the palm of his hand in reply, before pressing a kiss there. “You don’t think it’s too short?” he asks suddenly, nerves attacking him out of nowhere.

It’s a bit of a surprise, and a bit of a shock, because honestly he hasn’t felt this unsure about his facial hair since he was twenty. But Bilbo makes him nervous: makes him feel like he’s twenty again, and still not used to it all.

“I think it’s _lovely_ ,” Bilbo declares, leaning up and rubbing their cheeks together. His pupils are wide and blown. “I want you to leave beard burn all over me.”

The words are like a punch to Thorin’s gut, and excitement shoots through his body.

Christ, he needs to be everywhere at once. Wants his mouth and hands to be able to touch everything at the same time.

He tires his best, of course, but knows it’s impossible.

Bilbo doesn’t seem to mind his efforts, however. But he’s impatient, and he’s arching up against Thorin while he busies himself sucking a set of large hickeys along his neck and down his chest.

There’s already one or two blooming along his ribs, and a bite mark down on his thigh. But Thorin’s not done yet.

“Come on,” Bilbo whines, pulling at Thorin’s hair. “I may start getting violent if you make me wait any longer.”

Thorin rolls his eyes and slowly finishes what he’d started, drawing it out for as long as possible, before leaning back to admire his handiwork, giving Bilbo the chance to wriggle free from his grip.

He pushes Thorin back onto the bed and climbs on top of him. “Don’t tell me Dwalin gave you that condom for _nothing_ ,” he says now. “Come on.”

Thorin grins and grabs Bilbo’s hands.

“Come on,” Bilbo says again, wriggling in his lap. “Come on! If you keep this up maybe I’ll call Azog and-”

Thorin flips him onto his back immediately, pinning him to the mattress. “How rude of you,” he says now, clicking his tongue, “to tease me like that.”

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Are you going to hurry up or am I going to die of old age?”

“There’s something to be said for patience.”

“There’s something to be said for taking things _too_ slow.”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Thorin intones gently, but his hands are shaking now, and his heart is racing, and he knows he won’t be able to be take things slow for much longer.

“Well, I’m more of a rabbit myself,” Bilbo tells him. “I finish quite fast, so it’d be unfair for you to draw it out too long.” He twists his arms about, breaking from Thorin’s grip, and slips a hand into Thorin’s underwear. “It’s no fun for me if I can’t do anything,” he says earnestly, gripping Thorin and tugging a little. “You’re not impatient enough.”

“You’re _too_ impatient,” Thorin manages to return, although it sounds a little hoarse.

His throat has closed up rather suddenly, you see, and he’s quite unable to form words now.

He bites at Bilbo’s jaw and noses down to his neck, pressing his face into his shoulder. “Speaking of hares being faster than tortoises,” Thorin bites out, “I think I’m going to be a bit of a rabbit myself, if you don’t-”

Bilbo catches the drift and stops, instead turning his attention to getting rid of their underwear. “Do you have something? Please tell me you have something.”

Thorin rolls his eyes and fishes the lube out of the bedside table. “I’m not a complete idiot,” he remarks dryly.

Bilbo just laughs.

“What?” Thorin demands.

“I’ve just never met anybody who actually _uses_ the furniture in a hotel room. Most people just keep everything in their bags.”

“Then they’re doing it wrong,” Thorin returns, uncapping the bottle. “The furniture is there for a reason.”

“Are we really going to have an argument about this _now_?” Bilbo wonders, looking genuinely interested in Thorin’s answer.

“Hush,” he just says, and nudges Bilbo back into the pillows before settling between his legs.

It takes a little while, and a hell of a lot of restraint on Thorin’s behalf (because Bilbo doesn’t seem to be interested in his own self preservation so _someone’s_ got to be clear-headed for the both of them) but he finally manages to work him open properly.

“ _Finally_ ,” Bilbo groans when Thorin rips open the condom.

“It has not been that long,” Thorin replies, rolling his eyes. But he has to admit, his patience is wearing thin.

“Yes it has,” Bilbo insists, wrapping his legs around Thorin’s waist.

His back arches when Thorin settles inside, and his mouth drops open a little, like he’s trying to work out sounds but can’t.

“Are you okay-?”

Bilbo groans in exasperation. “Yes, _Christ_ , just do something already!”

Thorin can’t help but laugh. “Alright, alright,” he says, leaning down to kiss him. “Nagging me already like we’re an old couple.”

For all the time it took to get started, it’s over ridiculously fast.

Bilbo’s rocking against him and Thorin just can’t wait any longer.

“So much for being a tortoise,” Bilbo laughs when Thorin warns him, before cutting himself off with a loud groan.

“I’ll still beat you,” Thorin declares, intent on holding out.

“ _Liar_ ,” Bilbo manages.

“ _Loser_ ,” Thorin teases.

“No, _you’ll_ be the loser.”

Turns out they both kind of win. Thorin’s the first to shout out, but it sort of happens at the same time so he’s not sure who the Hare is and who’s the Tortoise.

Bilbo’s surprisingly quiet, completely different to how Thorin had imagined him, mouth open and gasping for air, body taut. Thorin’s ridiculously loud (he knows this, he’s come to terms with it) and probably woke the people in the hotel room beside him up with his shouting at the end.

He wonders if he should go over and apologise later.

But right now he doesn’t really care. He just collapses beside Bilbo and watches him try to catch his breath, chest rising and falling harshly: his hair is slick with sweat, and tangled and mussed, and his lips are red and swollen.

Thorin can certainly see beard burn over him, and feels ridiculously happy with himself about it.

Bilbo looks quite pleased as well. “Well,” he says now, looking over at Thorin. “That was fun.”

Thorin hums an affirmation, pushing his hair out of his face before reaching over and doing the same to Bilbo’s.

“Even if you didn’t win the title,” Bilbo goes on after a short period of silence. “But that’s okay: maybe I’ll go find Radagast later, and-”

Thorin rolls on top of him and kisses him into silence.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys saw any errors feel free to point them out!


End file.
